Treasure Island

Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

Music, When Soft Voices Die


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Akhtar Jawad (5/22/2014 5:02:00 AM)

    I read this poem when I was a college student. Like love at first sight this poem made a place in my heart and and soul. Yes, I love this poem. I have no reasons for this love, but I shall continue loving this poem. It is my teen aged love. (Report) Reply

  • Sonny Faolan (8/14/2009 12:08:00 PM)

    this is so sad and nostalgic! i love the way he closed it: 'love itself shall slumber on.'. (Report) Reply

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